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Tag Archives: Louis Vuitton

First world problem – a non-working cell phone that carries over to a week.

How the fuck do landlines work again?

My iPhone 6 took a literal dump. Complete with a cracked screen (I seriously replaced that motherfucker four times – FOUR TIMES and each and every time cracking occurred, it had a protective screen on it) and total black out of the phone BUT if I kept it charged, sometimes Siri would work. Bonus, I was gifted an iWatch from Sister CBXB for my birthday and I could use that to talk and text like a fucking secret service agent.

Who doesn’t scream into their wrist?

Wanna know how I felt as soon as I had a brand new phone in my hands?

Hello again 2018.

While I was awaiting my new phone, I was able to hire, beg my gal pal Rasta, into being my own personal paparazzi. My cousin, Tballs and his wife with whom he’s been with so long, she feels like a cousin, Hussy #5 visited Nashville and naturally, I needed documentation.

A trashtacular family sandwich.

Hussies for life.

Dad’s Day required margaritas and four heaping bowls of salsa.

Feel good Father’s Day.

My twins of The Pussy Posse turned six last week. They were overjoyed. Obviously.

Sleepy at six.

Another member of my posse is making the rounds at the vet (and I’m still paying off Ted who’s been over the Rainbow Bridge for almost a year), Precious my chug.

Fainting couch needed.

Pres is 12 years old but truly acts like a puppy in the fact that she canNOT contain her excitement over anything. At all. So, in the recent weeks, she’s been so excited seeing her leash, she passes out for a few seconds. The first time at the vet, we were supposed to keep an eye on her. Then, she passed out upon my return home from work last week (I mean, I do know how to make an entrance into a room).

Vet visit two resulted in a referral to a pet cardiologist AND an order to keep this chug as calm as possible. I sound like a fucking ass clown coming home from work, trying to talk in a monotone voice, when typically my screech could shatter windows when talking to my fur kids.

Netflix and chillin’.

I’m not even supposed to take her out to pee (she’s puppy pad trained) because the sight of her sparkle leash literally makes her pass out. So what’s a fabulous fur mom supposed to do for a little stimulation? Put her in a Louis Vuitton and take her on errand runs.

Most annoying duo on the west side of Nashville.

Preshy even joined First Mate and yours truly for an early Friday happy hour.

While speaking of illnesses and fur kids, Mama CBXB has two pussies that I may or may not have had a hand in getting her. One is a fucking beast who gives all felines a bad name – hissing and batting at legs and making sounds that don’t seem like they belong on this planet. The other, is the sweetest little baby you could imagine. Yet, they get along.

A beast and a baby.

When I tried picking the beast up over the weekend, I got a little souvenir for my heroic efforts of love.

Finally! I’m sprouting cat hair.

Speaking of hair, look who is the proud owner of some colored locks…

Sorry. Not sorry she’s my mini me.

My nephew, Prince B, is taking after his folks for a love of baking. This weekend it was pizza.

Chef BoyArdee.

The ultimate taste tester.

After a week full of shit show news, it was good to get out and about at Nashville Pride.

Roaming the festival with Rasta.

LGBTQ allies.

One of my fave parts of festivals is gawking at people and boy, this one did not disappoint. The best t-shirt ever goes out to this dude, who found it on Etsy.

Trump is not his safe word.

It was also Tan Boy’s birthday and we had a big time making fun of my blondeness.

Taking Pride a tad too literally.

Pride weekend was a much-needed positive reminder after all of the hate spew coming from people of all walks of life these days.

Love is love.

Regardless of your political affiliation, every person bleeds red, compassion is compassion and treating people like actual human beings is NOT hard.

Image by Justin Teodoro.

Care.

Care your fucking brains out with compassion. It matters. If you need any guidance on how to do this, give me a ring. I no longer have to shout into my wrist.

While it seemed the month of January lasted 100 days earlier this year, how in the fuck is it now the middle of June? Bananas.

I’ve taken a slide down the regression train the last two months in regard to Rapegate and its aftermath full of PTSD and what not but – BUT with the help of my family, friends and fur balls, my wheels are still on the track, although daily WD40 is required at this point. Here’s what kept me moving and grooving…

Sometimes all you need are ladies who help keep your crown held high. And wine. Lots and lots of wine.

A night in with laughs, snacks and shenanigans.

I decided to get CPR certified, so maybe when I’m having my own panic attacks I can calm myself the fuck down (just kidding…only chewing on Xanax and getting on all fours does the trick for me). When we were practicing chest compressions on our dummies, the instructor asked who I was mad at…angry much? Yes, I believe I will be taking up kick boxing or kung fu in the near future.

It was the shit watching Nashville’s NHL hockey team, the Predators make their second appearance in the Stanley Cup playoffs, complete with watch parties.

Fang Fingers!

While they didn’t make it to the end, it was a season full of fun with reasons to partake in cocktails whether they won or lost.

Reasons for seasons.

There’s always reminders that I need to stop and smell the roses lilacs, compliments of my Princess B. She knows what’s up.

She reminds me that I always have time to stop and smell the wine.

Not drinking alone if your cats are home.

Or your chug.

Summer sports are in full swing and I think I have a sports star in the making with Prince B.

Sports stud on the rise.

I don’t know if Prince B could do it without the support from his sister, who clearly only comes to his games to watch.

Cheerleading at its finest.

You wanna know what else is a ‘holy fuck?!’ moment? My Iowa twins graduated Pre-K. We have official kindergarteners on ours hands people.

First and last day pics.

As soon as the summer vacation commenced, these two were on it full speed ahead.

Vacay the right way.

Oh and my tender-hearted nephew is about to melt your heart. Even if its dead and cold. He recently shaved his head because he wanted matching ‘dos with his dad.

Like father, like son.

In other happy news, my dophew, Spike, celebrated his third trip around the sun.

Spike with his fave kind of bone.

And in possibly the best news yet, the mini manse’s pool opened.

Summer hydration IV.

Rasta and I celebrated our one year anniversary – we met at the pool last year. Awe.

Alcohol and Bad Decisions.

More happiness with my fabulous stylist who not only is one of my besties but makes me laugh AND makes my hair dreams come true.

He does the hair. I provide the accessories.

The pink glitter cup he gifted me left me with surprises in my pie hole.

Sequin tooth in place. Does this give me street cred?

Bird Lady and I found a new bar, Firefly Bar and Grille, where I want to move in as they have their Christmas lights up all year long inside. Better yet, when one strand burns out, they leave it up and just put new ones over the old strand. Be still my beating heart.

Firefly and feeling fine.

When my gal pal from college came in, we shut that damn bar down while showing off our jazz hands we perfected in our collegiate show choir. Yep. We were cool like that.

Jazz hands still on point.

There have been many a Friday night where I want to stay in and get wild with organization. But this keeps happening…

So I catch up on how to murder people without getting caught. Don’t piss me off.

I’m also happy to report that Nashville is finally joining the 1980s and offering wine on Sundays now. We still can’t purchase liquor but I’ll settle for Jesus juice.

Miracles do come true.

Speaking of miracles, my loudmouth was allowed on a golf course to play a bit of put-put (or as real golfers call it, golf) while also delivering snacks and booze. All for a fabulous cause – Monroe Carell Jr. Children’s Hospital at Vanderbilt. Over $300,000 was raised for the kids.

Koozies make the best earrings.

When they told me to stock up the cart with snacks, I pretended I was on Supermarket Sweep and took just about everything in sight.

Griswolds of the golf course.

Roaming around on the golf course are sheep and being the animal lover I am, I wanted to take one home. But I settled for a photo instead, where they look like white blobs behind a big slob.

The famous sheep with a gigantic asshat.

In other famous news, Princess B got all dolled up for her second recital. And while I am very proud of her, I am also beyond jealous of her costume and am considering an extreme diet so I can squeeze my ample rear end into it.

Dancing Queen

Since she supported her brother in baseball, it was only fair he happily did the same…complete with the proper dance picture pose.

Hands on hips.

I used to be an avid jogger. My bed seems so much better these days, yet, First Mate got me out of my shell and coaxed me into participating in a Coconut RAD (Random Ass Distance) Run. Rasta was so moved, she made us a support poster.

The only way I will run anymore is if I can also hold booze.

One size fits “most”…uh, yeah, right.

While we were far from first place, we were also far from last. And, we couldn’t say no to rum in our coconuts.

Middle of the pack finishers!

No better way to cool off than a party day with Dada CBXB.

Race day cool down.

Suns Out, Buns Out.

I took one for the team, rounding up my dad’s ginormous sandals when it was time to leave.

You all know how much I love my fur balls and one in particular is having some issues. Precious the chug passed out yesterday on the way out for a walk. She’s been to the vet and had tests done, so please send your good juju her way.

Hopeful to get some pep back in her pitiful step.

That, my friends is a long winded catch up. The many reasons I have to smile has everything to do with you.

While holy matrimony has never been high on my list of hopeful accomplishments (although I can train the fuck out of a man. Ex-boyfriends that were once couch potatoes, allergic to family encounters, bitched about having to go to out-of-town weddings, were closeted alcoholics, verbally abusive – all matters leading to break ups are now treating ladies right. Now I get to sit back and watch my masterpieces practice my long, hard efforts in their current love lives. Bitter much…who moi? You’re welcome girls).

Whipping male asses into shape for fellow females.

Often classifying myself as trashtacular, it will come as no surprise that when I was driving by one of the many dumpsters near my mini manse, my interest was beyond piqued when I spied a gigantic white box big enough to store body parts beside the filthy green trash receptacle.

I did what any classy person would do…I slammed on the brakes, leapt out of my rust bucket, just knowing that the headless corpse I was about to discover would land me on my fave TV show, Forensic Files without having to be deceased.

Instead, as I slowly opened the box, an even bigger surprise awaited my eyeballs.

A fucking wedding gown. Preserved to perfection.

Was this a sign? An omen? Bad juju (I mean Jesus, is there any luck in finding a wedding dress dumpster diving? I mean, aside from it being free and all). I suddenly became a woman more excited about a wedding dress than finding a stray pussy that needs a home (JUST KIDDING. I would first home the cat and then set my sights on my pretend wedding).

This dress had been abandoned once before. Who was I to do it again? The chiffon pouf found a home in the back of my rust bucket, along with a Christmas tree and anything else I don’t have room for in the mini manse. It resided there until one evening at a gathering of gals for Supper Club. Among the convo, I mentioned my dumpster diving prowess skills and with zero urging, ran out to my car and got the box.

The shenanigans began.

Upon opening the box, we not only discovered there was the dress but also the veil AND THE SHOES – which revealed the previous owner’s practicality, as they were ballet flats. Ew.

My new favorite bad hair day ‘do.

Suddenly, I became a flushed bride trying to stuff myself into polyester chiffon (I mean, I didn’t go on a wedding dress diet because I didn’t know I would be so fortunate to be all dressed up…with no altar to go).

I haven’t tried to stuff myself into anything chiffon since, well, ever. I mean, naturally my prom dresses were sequins and any bridesmaid dress that I will “totally wear again” (and never, ever have) were more on the silk/satin side of the material world.

With a touch of fake tulips off my gal pal’s mantel, I was a (literally) hot bride – one lit cigarette butt from going up in flames.

While half of the group was trying to get me in and out of the dress, the other ladies were playing private detectives. We had a name from the alteration receipt, which was from a dress shop in Hoover, AL. WHAT WAS THE STORY BEHIND THIS DRESS?

I mean, if it was cheating, wouldn’t one burn the dress? A nasty divorce, even, maybe donate the dress? But to leave it unscathed at the dumpster really proved that this former bride had a sliver of regard for the giddy-up that once promised her forever, which may now be my forever. But whatever.

With the small paper trail and armed with her maiden name, our investigators were able to peruse social media, locate her, see second wedding photos (with a far more updated gown) and we all now know she lives three buildings down from me. Maybe we should all quit our jobs and become private detectives?

Lost but found.

OR maybe I will just quit my day job, go down to Broadway Street in Nashville in my new threads and pretend I got left at the altar for sympathy and free Skinny Pirates.

OR better yet, I can be the runaway bride and charge tourists (who pay for any and everything) $5 for a picture with this damsel in distress.

OR do I plan a wedding to myself for myself and register for all the things like Louis Vuitton bags, Christian Louboutin heels, a Go Fund Me account for vet bills, and a collection for a new car (i.e. Range Rover)?

OR do I wear this on every second date I go on?

While I have yet to ever online date, this for sure will be a profile picture if I ever do. Accompanied with one single tag line:

Must love cats.

I betcha they’ll be lining up to say, “I don’t,” even if I’m not looking for anything but casual.

Regardless, I can’t stop wearing the fucking veil.

Don’t mind me. Just a crazy lady parading around in a stranger’s veil.

So we spent the better half of our weekend at the vet. Why you ask? Because everyone in the goddamned house had worms. FUCKING WORMS. All from our little chug who brought in fleas, which I thought I’d gotten rid of after a dip in the tub and a bomb of the mini manse but apparently, one of the felines got one in their belly and fleas turn in to worms.

Dip Baby Dip.

You know what’s fun when you have four cats and a dog? Prepping to take stool samples for the vet to examine, Ted’s meds for refills and new pussy paperwork on the three February family additions (yes, I’m my veterinarian’s dream come true).

Just another day in my fabulous life.

We loaded up (after a 43 minute mad dash for the baby, Elsa Pants, under beds, on the porch, in a kitchen cabinet – although I can’t blame her because she was getting to ride in a box) and were on our way. The two older cats got to stay back and receive topical treatment when I got home – which didn’t go over well with the three in my petmobile.

Never a dull moment.

When we finally got to the vet, I realized that my Louis Vuitton (my sixth baby), literally had shit in it because that’s where this blonde thought it was a good place to house the Ziplocs of feces when rounding the fur balls up.

Loaded Louis.

Patient patients.

Sweet Elsa Pants had no choice but to be patient in her box because she might as well be a greased pig running down a high school hallway during a Senior prank when out and about.

We have a runner.

Ted and Elsa took their topical worm treatments like pros. Precious on the other hand, ate her way through 18 pill pockets and STILL didn’t get the pill down.

Do your dogs do this?

After five attempts with a pill popper, the vet techs (yes, plural) were successful but someone wasn’t thrilled.

The winning weekend news though was that Teddy gained a pound since February (which is fab, since he lost half his body weight last year due to illness).

Bad news is Precious also gained a pound since February.

The worst news is that yours truly has gained 15 pounds in the same time frame.

Ever wake up after a hard night’s sleep, take a gander in the mirror and immediately want to wave a white flag in defeat?

About last night…

Surrendering any hope for good lookin’ locks for the day, you know when you show face (or dark roots, rather) in public folks will be talking behind your back about what a trashtacular turn for the worst your looks have taken? How you’re letting yourself go? How you must be broke as the top three inches of your hair are shades darker than the rest of your locks?

“There’s Something About Mary” hair – only greasier.

OK, so I don’t generally go in public decked out like a dork. But I do often wake up longing for hair that magically grows a light blonde out of my scalp (instead, I have to visit my magician every six weeks) therefore alleviating the need for me to wash my hair every.single.day. If I miss a shampoo, I look like I have taken Crisco to my roots by noon.

How does one cover up the trashiness growing from her mane?

Here are a few remedies I’ve found work for my hair indiscretions.

#1. The Snooki

The Southern version of the Jersey Shore ‘do.

Requirements: two barrettes.

Objects may seem higher in the mirror than in actuality.

This overall style saves me 25 minutes of hair hell in the morning.

#2. The Bang

When I was bitching at work regarding my greasy, grimy mane, a girl turned around and said, “Just wash your bangs in the morning.”

No shit? Being blonde is hard work.

Full frontal cleanliness.

Requirements: shampoo and blow dryer. This version of “clean” hair saves me 20 minutes of primping.

#3. The Bret Michaels

Every hair has its thorn…

Requirements: scarf (and no ponytail the day/night before).

Talk dirty to me.

This is an ultimate time saver, as I can truly bounce out of bed, tie a scarf and go (but I have to remember to pack a Sharpie marker in my purse for all of the autographs I’m asked to sign while sporting this style), which saves me 30 minutes of hair agony.

#4. The Bun

This was an accidental oily hair cover-up, as I tossed my locks up in a bun one day at the beach. But when I realized it would stay put all day, the look was added to my dark root arsenal.

An accidental beach miracle.

Requirements: one scrunchie (yes I said a scrunchie – I’m too cheap to buy the bun sponge helper thing. But it doesn’t count as a scrunchie in public if you can’t see it. Ok? OK?!) and bobby pins.

Just dreaming of Jeannie and wishing I could grant wishes.

Behind the bun.

This ballerina remedy adds another 15 minutes to my day.

#5. The Hat Trick

Can’t tell I’m a slimy mess under the fedora, can you?

This is the simplest remedy of them all. Grab hat. Put on head.

Requirements: any kind of stylish head topper.

Playing hide and seek with the horrific dark roots.

This trick saves me 35 minutes of messing with my tresses.

After all of the five remedies above have been tried and tested over the 42 days between salon visits (minus the nerd look), it’s time to visit my miracle maker.

Getting blonder (not smarter) by the second with my precious sidekick, Precious.

My roots breathe a momentary sigh of relief as I let them come out to play in all of their newfound blonde glory.

Back to blonde(r) requires celebration, naturally.

If you happen to see me in any of the above states, you’ll know I’m either trying to eek out seven weeks between salon visits or avoiding the hair wash (because I’m hung over, tired from a long weekend, hung over or just plain lazy).

It’s possible you won’t recognize me in all of my “I-swear-I-don’t-live-in-a-house-on-wheels-although-you’d-never-know-it-with-my-three-inches-of-visible-dark-roots” various, incognito giddy ups as you mistake me for Bret Michaels. Or any guest from the Maury Povich show.

A three day holiday weekend meant it was time to high tail it up to Iowa in order to see the twins, catch a little college football and finish up a birthday celebration.

Princess and Prince B awaiting my appearance.

Being that we arrived in the wee hours of Saturday morning, 8am tailgating time came a tad early for me. But I was able to rally with a glass of vodka mixed with everyone’s favorite…Capri Sun.

Can you tell my friends have kids?

Excited to be in Iowa City for the first game of football season, I met up with my college bestie, Whitney Lover (who has a once-was-white-but-now-it’s-yellow-because-it’s-so-old Whitney Houston t-shirt from the “Greatest Love of All” days that she still sports) and couldn’t wait to get my hands on her little Lady E.

One of us is bright eyed and bushy tailed.

Then we headed to see the action at the tailgates with 70,000 of our closest buddies.

Truth.

When it comes to Whitney Lover and myself, we do nothing but up the ante of classiness wherever we go.

Classing up the joint with our plastic grocery bag cooler.

Classing it up with food choices…a foot long corn dog and ribeye on a stick.

As well as keeping it nutricious with our classy game day picnic spread.

Watching our Iowa Hawkeyes take in a big W was a fabulous way to kick-off the football season.

But want to know what was more fabulous?

Seeing my boyfriend, Herky the Hawk roaming the streets as I stalked followed him to beg,plead ask for a photo together. He kindly obliged my request by driving as fast as he could down the street as I tried to throw myself in front of his golf cart.

Pretty sure Herky’s checking my ass out, right? True love.

Naturally a victorious football team AND running into my mascot boy toy called for celebratory bubbles.

Victories taste so good.

The rest of the weekend required partying for my ma’s birthday, as the twins couldn’t be in Nashville on her actual big day. Being that this was a milestone, we brought out the big guns with friends and family joining in on one mother of a gift.

Yep. It’s really what the box says it is.

A Louis Vuitton will now be housed among my mama’s other accessories.

A gift worth celebrating!

And mom had a wee bit of trouble taking her new bag back to Nashville, as Princess B wasn’t about it let it out of her sight.

Yep. She’s for sure my niece.

Capping the holiday weekend out with one last cocktail took all of these ingredients…